New York City Blues
by Madwoman in the TARDIS
Summary: Sipowicz and Clark are faced with life-changing situations. This isn't one of my best chapters, but at least I'm updating, right?
1. Surprises in Hell

Copyright and Author's Rambling

            NYPD Blue and all known characters belong to Steven Bochco, David Milch, ABC, etc.  In other words, they don't belong to me.  _Capese?_  Noelle Camden, Lisa Wilder, Jasmyn Wilder, Greg the bartender, and any other character you don't recognize, was created in my insane mind.

                Did they ever give Connie's niece a name?  So far, they've just referred to her as "the baby."  I'm naming her "Michelle" after her mother.  Since I don't live in New York City, I'm not sure if places and organizations I mentioned are correct.  I do know that in Manhattan, streets run east-west and avenues run north-south.  If somebody can offer suggestions, I'm all ears.  Any racist remarks are the reflection of Sipowicz's character and in no way represent the views of the author.

New York City Blues 

Chapter One: Surprises in Hell 

McDowell-Sipowicz Residence

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

7:30 pm

            Detective Andy Sipowicz took a bite of glazed ham and glanced over at his son.  "Stop playing with your food," he told Theo.

            The red headed seven-year-old wrinkled his nose in disgust and continued to shove the French-cut green beans around his plate.  "But it's yucky."

            "C'mon, Theo.  I thought you liked green beans."

            Theo shook his head.  "Not this kind I don't."

            "You know the rule.  You have to eat one green vegetable."

            The boy pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.  "I don't want to," he stated matter-of-factly.

            Andy sighed and shot Detective Connie McDowell an exasperated look.  _Maybe she'll have better luck._  The blonde detective seemed to understand what her boyfriend was thinking and addressed the stubborn child:  "How about you eat four green beans?"

            "No way!"

            "One for Daddy, one for me, one for you, and one for Michelle," she continued.  The ten-month-old in question was napping in her infant seat next to Connie.

            Theo seemed to be pondering this idea.  "It's better than eating all of them," Andy reminded his son.

            The phone rang, giving Theo a chance to escape from eating the cursed green beans.  "You sit here and eat," Andy said before the boy could jump up out of his seat.  _It's seven-thirty in the evening.  Who the hell would be calling during dinner?_  "McDowell-Sipowicz residence," he greeted the caller.

            "Is there an Andrew Sipowicz in this household?" a woman inquired.__

            "Speaking," he answered.  

            "My name is Noelle Camden," she told him.  "I'm a …"  _Great, one of those damn solicitors._

"We're in the middle of dinner," he cut in before she could continue.  "So whatever it is you're selling – we're not interested."

            "I'm not a solicitor," Ms. Camden informed the detective.

            He apologized.  "Where did you say you were calling from again?"

            "I'm a social worker with the New York City Department of Child Services," she explained.  "We have your daughter in protective custody."

            "I don't have a daughter."  

            "Does the name 'Lisa Wilder' sound familiar to you?"  _Lady, what the hell are you talking about?_

            "No, it doesn't.  I think you've got the wrong number, lady."  Blunt and to the point.  

            "Lisa Wilder was killed in an automobile collision five days ago," Ms. Camden said.  "She left behind a daughter, Jasmyn.  You were listed on the birth certificate as the father."

            "I don't know no "Lisa Wilder' and I've never had a daughter," he repeated more forcefully.  "I won't tell you again – you've got the wrong number."

            "So you're not Andrew Sipowicz, Jr.?" she asked.

            He found himself gripping the phone until his knuckles turned white.  _Are you okay?_ Connie mouthed.  He gave her an encouraging nod and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.  "No, that's my son," he told the social worker.  "I'm Andrew Sipowicz, Sr."

            "I'm sorry for the mistake, sir.  Do you know where I can reach him?"

            _Yeah, at Monroe Cemetery._  "He was killed seven years ago in a bar fight," he said, his voice taking on a softer tone.

            "Did he ever mention Lisa or Jasmyn's names?"

             "Not that I can remember.  How old is the girl?"  He glanced over at Theo.  The boy glared back and stabbed a green bean multiple times with his fork.

            "She turns nine in November.  From what I've heard, Mr. Sipowicz was very involved in Jasmyn's early life.  I'm surprised you've never met her."

            He mentally did some calculations.  "I was a heavy drinker back then," he admitted.  "My son and I didn't have any sort of relationship until right before his death."  A thought occurred to him:  "Aren't there any relatives on Miss Wilder's side?"

            "Apparently, Miss Wilder was estranged from her family, too," the woman said.  "You appear to be this girl's only family."

            _And to think I thought getting Theo to eat his vegetables would be the highlight of the evening._  "Why don't I take down your number and give you a call tomorrow," he said.  The social worker gave him the information.  "I'll stop by during my lunch break."

            By the time Detective Sipowicz returned to the table, three pairs of eyes were upon him.  Two pairs were curious to learn what the conversation was about.  The third couldn't care less about the telephone call; she just wanted her diaper changed.

            Connie touched his arm.  "Who was that?" she asked.

            "Can I have a Popsicle?" Theo asked.

            He nodded his head toward the bedroom.  Connie headed toward it while he dealt with his stubborn son.  "You've got one more green bean to go," he said.  "I'll be completely bald by the time you finish, at the rate you're going."

            Theo giggled.  "But Daddy, you're already bald."

            Andy touched the side of his head.  "No, I've still got some hair."  He pointed to the boy's plate.  "Now finish up."

            "Who was on the phone?" Connie repeated once they were out of earshot of Theo.

            "A social worker," Andy said.  "Apparently, I've got a granddaughter …"

* * *

John Clark, Jr. Residence         

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

2:59 am

            _Blood … Pop … I just want to be at peace and be with your mother … my fault my fault my fault …where does your dad keep his gun cleaning supplies, John? … I'm done raising you … I want to be at peace … why, Pop? … No!_ An anguished scream broke through the murky thoughts swimming around his head with an intensity that threatened to shatter his already fragile existence.  He felt a hand grasp his forearm; he thrashed around trying to get the intruder to leave him be.

            "John, wake up," a voice coaxed.  "You're having a nightmare."  Hands gently stroked his hair as the voice attempted to _shush _him.

            _Little boy soaked with perspiration … you're having a nightmare … Pop's here now … I'll never let nothing bad happen to you (bullshit!) … that's my boy … that's my Johnny … keep making me proud._  He blinked his hazel eyes and brought the blurry ceiling into focus.  "Pop?" he whispered anxiously.  He cast a hopeful glimpse at the man who loved him and protected him from the bad dreams.  _Wait a minute – you're not Pop! _He silently accused the dark-haired woman who had mysteriously taken his dad's place.  "Rita?" 

            Rita Ortiz continued running her fingers through her boyfriend's sweat-matted hair.  "It's okay, John.  It's gonna be okay."

            He rubbed his tear-stained eyes, further increasing their redness.  "What time is it?"

            "Three in the morning," she answered.  She wrapped her arms around his body and drew his head to her chest, unconsciously cradling him in the identical manner of his father.  This had become a common ritual over the past three weeks.  

            "You really shouldn't be here," John advised her.  "You're never gonna get any sleep at this rate."

            "I don't mind," Rita assured him.  Her tone changed to one of concern.  "Have you gotten any sleep?"

            _Blood … Pop … eyes wide open … blood …can't close my eyes without seeing the blood … someone please make it go away!_  "On and off," he lied.  When Rita wasn't spending the night, he would occupy himself with bland infomercials or a brisk jog through the inky black New York City streets.  He barely had enough energy during the day – couldn't even take a bite out of a plain bagel without feeling nauseous – but when his exhausted head finally found solace on a pillow, he couldn't fall asleep.  The mere act of closing his eyes caused hell to resurface.  

            "I wish you'd talk to somebody about the nightmares," she urged him.  _And the insomnia … and your loss of appetite … but you can't worry about any of those things because you don't know they even exist._

            "I'm fine," he told her.  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  "I'm gonna make some tea.  You want?"

            "I really think you should talk to some …"

            "I said I was fine!" he said abruptly.  "Lemon chamomile tea – that's what I'm making.  If you want some, I'll be in the kitchen.  That's where the stove is."  She looked puzzled by choice of words, but he could care less.  He shuffled his feet into the kitchen and opened the cabinets in search of tea.  His eyesight blurred and there seemed to be two conjoined twin boxes of Lucky Charms instead of the original one box.  As soon as his knees buckled, his hands reached out to grab the edge of the countertop.  _You haven't been getting any sleep … that's why you keep having these dizzy spells._  

            Rita joined him in the kitchen while the water boiled.  "I just want to help, John," she explained.

            He sighed and buried his face in his hands.  "I know.  I just … you don't …"

            She interrupted his stuttering with a kiss on the forehead.  "I'm here, John.  You can talk to me.  Alright?"

            He wanted to scream at her, accuse her of lying – _he lied … promised he'd always be here for me … screw you! _– but he bit his tongue and attempted a smile.  "Thanks," he said quietly.  _I don't care what you or Andy or anybody at the Fifteenth says … I'm truly alone … Pop!_

* * *

New York City Department of Child Services, Temporary Group Home

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

12:18 pm

            Detective Sipowicz entered the five-story building and nearly collided into a young girl running down the hall.  

            "Sorry, mister," the girl said.  Her dark skin reminded him of coffee after it was watered down with milk.  

            "Don't run like that," he advised her.  "You could fall down."

She shook her head back, letting jet-black curls fall away from her eyes.  "I'm a good runner," she boasted.  "I'm pretty careful, ya know."

            A man with platinum-blond hair approached the child.  _They let freaks like you work with kids?_  "Jasmine, you know you're not supposed to be running inside the building," he chastised her.  The now identified "Jasmine" crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes in Andy's direction.  "Don't be sassy with me.  Why aren't you in the dining hall?  It's lunch time."

            "Cause I'm not hungry," Jasmine explained.  _This girl's just as stubborn as Theo._

            "Oh, you're not, huh?" the man responded.  "I'd eat something if I were you.  Dinner's not for another six-and-a-half hours."  _I don't think she's going to care until her stomach starts to grumble._

            "But Rocky …" she whined.

            "I'm not giving you an option here."

            Realizing she was defeated, the girl let out an exasperated sigh and retreated down the hall toward what Andy guessed was the aforementioned dining room.

            Andy cleared his throat.  The man turned around and noticed the portly detective for the first time.  "I'm sorry, sir," he said.  "Can I help you?"

            "Yeah, I'm looking for a Noelle Camden."

            "You must be Detective Sipowicz," the man stated.  He extended his hand.  "Damon Rocklander.  Everybody calls me 'Rocky'.  Most everyone's in the dining room right now.  Come on, I'll show you where it is."

            He observed his surroundings as he followed Rocky down the hall.  The mint-green paint was peeling, the floorboards were creaking, and the ceiling appeared to be covered in dust and mold.  _How old is this dump?  This place is "Allergy City."_

            Rocky seemed to be able to read the detective's thoughts.  "This building used to be a shirtwaist factory back in the 1920s," he explained.  "We're trying to raise enough money to move into newer accommodations by next summer."  He opened a door and ushered Andy inside.  Approximately five adults and twenty to thirty children of various ages were sitting at long tables.  The social worker and the detective approached the table closest to the door.  This table was occupied by five preteens and one middle-aged lady with her graying brunette hair pulled back into a harsh bun.  Rocky addressed the woman.  "Noelle, this is Detective Sipowicz," he informed her.

            The woman stood up and extended her hand to Andy.  "Noelle Camden," she introduced herself.

            Andy clasped her hand and shook it.  "Andy Sipowicz."  He glanced around the room in the hope of catching a glimpse of his granddaughter.  _I only see about eleven or twelve eight or nine-year-olds.  The only three white girls look nothing like Andy, Jr._  "Which one's Jasmyn?" he asked.

            "Second table to the end, third seat on the left," Ms. Camden told him.

            "Are you sure?" he asked.  The girl she was pointing toward was the same girl he had collided with before.  "There's got to be some kind of mistake," he explained.  _ A big mistake – that girl's black._

            "No mistake," the social worker clarified.  "Jasmyn is biracial."

            "I can see that," Andy shot back.  "She doesn't have any family on her mother's side?"  _I can't be taking care of no black girl.  God knows what type of trouble them people get into._

            "Ms. Wilder's family lives in Jamaica," she said.  "She was estranged from them.  It was her expressed wishes that Jasmyn be placed with her paternal family."

            "And if I don't take her?"

            "She'll most likely end up spending the next nine years in foster care," she replied.  "Children her age are impossible to find permanent homes for."

            "Alright, I'll take her," he answered.  Ms. Camden's face seemed to brighten.  "Do I need to fill out any paperwork or anything?"  _Andy, Jr., what the hell did you get yourself into?_


	2. Another Day on the Job

Copyright and Author's Rambling

                NYPD Blue belongs to Steven Bochco, David Milch, and ABC, etc.  _The Babysitters' Club_ belongs to Ann M. Martin (no, this isn't a crossover; Jasmyn reads one of those books so I've got to mention it in the copyright).

                There is a deaf character in this chapter (and maybe subsequent chapters).  When she (or others talking to her) use sign language, the words are written in italics (not to be confused with people's thoughts).

**Chapter Two: Another Day on the Job**

John Clark, Jr. Residence

Thursday, October 30, 2003

7:09 am

            "Wake up, sleepyhead," Rita cooed in her boyfriend's ear.  He moaned and buried his face in his pillow.

            "I'm not going to work today," he mumbled.

            She gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.  "Oh, yes, you are."  He felt a pair of hands yank the pillow from under his head.

            "Why'd you have to do that?" he complained, not making any effort at movement.

            "Because you're gonna be late for work."

            "I don't care."

            He felt a strand of her black hair brush over his cheek.  "Are you okay, John?"

            "Yeah, just a little tired."  _And if you don't mind, I'm going back to sleep now._

            "That's funny.  You crashed on the couch as soon as we got home yesterday.  And you went to sleep right after we ate dinner."

            He opened his eyes and received a glimpse of his girlfriend's worry before closing them again.  "Like I said, I've been kind of tired lately."  He hoisted his head off the bed and leaned against Rita's breasts.

            "If you hurry up and shower, I'll make you cinnamon French toast," she offered.  Cinnamon French toast had been his favorite breakfast dish since he was a kid.

            He shook his head.  "Don't bother," he told her.  "I'll just have a muffin or something."  He stood up and headed for the bathroom.

            "Are you sure?  I was going to make some for myself anyways."

            "I just don't feel like French toast this morning."  _I'm not hungry._

            His uneventful Wednesday morning had been interrupted by a gunshot wound to the head.  One glimpse at the DOA and gritty images of his father flashed in front of his face in rapid succession.  Andy nearly punched the hotshot uniform in the mouth for ribbing him _(What's the matter?  Never saw a corpse before?  Thought you gold shield detectives were supposed to be tough._)_.  His muscles felt sore and it took him longer than usual to get undressed.  He allowed himself to be immersed in the warm gushing water.  His vision was starting to blur, transforming one green facecloth into two fuzzy-looking objects.  He squeezed his eyes shut and sat down against the wall opposite the showerhead.  As quickly as the dizziness had come, it subsided.  He waited for a second before resuming his shower.  _I'm probably just stressed out,_ he decided.  _All the crap with Pop and everything … yeah, that's probably why I've been feeling like shit._  ___

* * *

Courtyard Behind Abandoned Building

Thursday, October 30, 2003

8:25 am

            "What've we got?" Detective Andy Sipowicz asked the uniformed cop.  

            The cop didn't look up from his notes.  "Partially decomposed unidentified female DOA, aged fifteen to twenty years.  Skull fracture and strangulation marks on the back of the neck."

            The cop led the two detectives to the body.  "Oh, Jesus!" Andy cursed under his breath before composing himself to shoot the photographs.  Half of the DOA's face was rotted and the back of the skull was crushed.  Wisps of dirty-blonde hair were matted with dried blood, and the neck was twisted.  The only article of clothing on the victim was a ripped cranberry sundress.  Andy photographed the DOA from another angle.  _Her fingernails are ripped,_ he observed.  _Whoever the son-of-a-bitch was, she didn't give up without a fight.  _"Where's Medavoy and Jones?" he asked his partner.  They noticed a thirty-something year-old black man loitering near the fence.  Andy motioned toward the man with his head.  

            "I think they're on the other side of the building doing canvass," John said.  _That's the first thing I've heard you say all morning,_ Andy realized.  He made a mental note to corner him about it later.           

"What' your name?"  Sipowicz called out to the loiterer.

            "D'Angelo."

            "You got something for us?  Or you just here for the show?"

            The man shrugged.  "I'm not bothering anybody," he said.  "Someone snort too much crack?"

            "No, somebody got murdered," the baldheaded detective said.

            "Not my problem."  

Sipowicz's face turned red and he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt.  "That kind of attitude's gonna get you in deep shit!" he snarled.

"Whatever you say," D'Angelo said.

"Do you always hang around here?" Andy wanted to know.

"I go where I feel like going," D'Angelo responded.  "So why don't you take your fat white ass and go bother some other dude."

_Big mouthed son-of-a-bitch!_  He was about to respond to the asshole fire-with-fire, but a resounding crack of flesh against concrete interrupted his efforts.  He used the opportunity to cuff D'Angelo to the chain link fence.

"What the fuck?" the man grumbled.

"You shut the hell up!" Andy snapped.  He looked down to see his partner's crumpled form on the ground.  "John?!"  _Damn it!  I knew he looked like hell this morning.  Shoulda made him go home._  He shook the unconscious man.  "Hey, John!"  He swallowed the sickening feeling back into the pit of his stomach.  Earlier this morning, he had dealt with a stubborn nine-year-old.  At the Station House, he had dealt with a stubborn partner.  Rita had mentioned to him that John was overly exhausted lately.  When he asked John about it, the younger man just waved off his girlfriend's concern and assured the older man that he was just a little tired but there was nothing to worry about.

He poked his head over the fence and saw the other 15th Precinct detectives interrogating a prostitute.  "Medavoy! Jones!" he shouted.  He waved them up to the courtyard.__

He's having so much trouble, Andy. … Yeah, I noticed that. … Oh, God, he can't stand up! … Medavoy!  Martinez!  … It's his chest cold.  Just his chest cold. … You're gonna be alright, Bobby.  Just lean against me.

"What happened?" Greg asked.

"How should I know?" D'Angelo spat.  "I didn't do nothing.  The man just fainted or something."

            Andy grabbed the man's arm and shoved him against the fence.  "Either you shut up or I'll shut you up myself!"  Greg took Andy's arm and led him away from the loudmouthed jerk.

            "He – he's coming around," the Irish man said.

            "You okay, John?" Baldwin asked.

            "Yeah, I'm fine," he responded.

            Andy knelt down next to his partner.  "You sure?  You look a little pale."

            "It's just a dizzy spell," John attempted to explain.  "I … maybe … I haven't been eating much lately."

            "Greg's got a banana in the car," Baldwin offered.

            "Are you sure you're okay, kid?" Andy repeated.  "I can call a bus if you …"

            "I said I was fine.  Just got a little dizzy, that's all."  He pushed away any attempts at help and shakily stood up.

* * *

15th Precinct Detective Squad

Thursday, October 30, 2003

9:54 am

            Detective John Clark, Jr. turned on the spigot and immersed his cupped palms in the refreshingly cold water.

            "How you feeling?" Detective Baldwin Jones asked as he walked to the urinals.

            John splashed the water onto his face.  "How many times do I have to tell you?" he muttered, annoyed.  "I'm fine.  It was just a dizzy spell."

            "You ever pass out like that before?" Baldwin called back.

            _No, I haven't – but I've come pretty damn close lately.  _"No," he answered.  He ripped off a paper towel and wiped the excess water off his forehead.  "I'll see you around," he told his friend before exiting.

            He shuffled his feet toward his desk, trying to keep himself upright.  _You really need to get a decent night's sleep, _he chastised himself.  His partner sat at the desk across from him, skimming through Missing Persons' reports.  "Any luck?" he inquired.

            "Yeah, any more luck and I'd be scraping in the millions in a crapshoot game," Andy snorted.

            John rested his chin in his palm.  "I'll take that as a no."  He noticed Lieutenant Tony Rodriguez talking to a woman in his office.  "Who's with the Lieutenant?"

            "Some forensic psychologist," Andy replied.  "The boss thinks we might need help with this one.  Like we've never dealt with partially decomposed skeletons before," he grumbled.

            Rodriguez opened his door and poked his head out.  "Sipowicz, Clark, in my office."  He shut the door behind the two partners.  "Sipowicz, Clark, this is …"

            "Not you!" John groaned.  He winked at the woman standing in front of Rodriguez' desk.  

            "Well hello to you too," she said coolly.  She shook her chin-length dreads and enveloped the young detective in a hug. 

            "You two know each other?" the Lieutenant asked.

            John grinned.  "Since kindergarten.  Siena and I practically grew up together."

            Siena extended a well-manicured hand in Andy's direction.  "Siena Hill," she greeted her friend's partner.

            "Dr. Hill has agreed to offer her assistance on your case," the Lieutenant informed the detectives.  "Why don't you bring her up to date."

            They exited the Lieutenant's office and stood in the hall.  "Partially decomposed female DOA …" John began.

            "…Falling in the fifteen to twenty age range with a skull fracture and strangulation marks on the neck," Siena continued.  "Your boss filled me in already."

            "Then what do you need us for?" Andy grumbled.

            "How about telling me what you've found in the Missing Persons' reports?" she suggested.  "Then we can head over to the morgue and take a look at the autopsy reports."  She headed for the detectives' desks.  John began to follow her, but Andy held him back.

            "Damn know-it-all," the veteran detective grumbled.  "What else does she plan on doing?  I've been on the job since you kids were in diapers."

            "Watch it, Andy," John warned.  

            "Cut the crap, Detective," Siena shot back.  "This ain't a contest."

            John stifled a smirk and shook his head.  _This is going to be very interesting._

* * *

McDowell-Sipowicz Residence

Thursday, October 30, 2003

6:45 pm

            Jasmyn Wilder curled up on the bed, reading _The Babysitters' Club_.  She didn't consider it to be her bed or Detective Sipowicz to be her grandfather.  It seemed that she was just a guest in that apartment, staying for an extended amount of time.  _There's no way in hell I'm related to that white cop,_ she told herself.  _Momma would call him a "prick" if she was here._  

            She turned the page.  Claudia Kishi was arguing with her parents over her grades.  _Connie and Theo seem nice enough.  Connie's real sweet._  The two detectives and the baby slept in the master bedroom and Jasmyn and Theo shared the smaller bedroom.  Sometimes, after "lights out," the two of them would chat.  He confided in her his fears of his father and Connie abandoning him; she told him stories about her mother and what little she could recall about the father/brother they barely knew.

            "Finish your homework?" Andy asked as he entered the room.

            Jasmyn shrugged.  "I didn't feel like doin' it."

            "Get to the table and get cracking," the man-who-was-her-grandfather ordered.  "What subjects do you have?"

            "Stupid math."  _Which I ain't doing._  She could picture Momma standing over her, telling her to line up the numbers so she wouldn't add _7+2 _instead of _7+9._  If she was having a difficult time with one particular problem, Lisa would have Jasmyn create a tune to go along with the equation.  She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest for effect.  _He's gonna get all mad now._

            Instead of the reaction she expected, the portly man crossed his arms over his own chest and imitated her scowl.  "I can out stubborn you any time."

            "Aw, can't I do it after dinner?"

            "Dinner won't be ready for another half hour," the detective told her.  "That gives you twenty-five minutes to get a head start.  Do as many of the problems as you can, and I'll check them after dinner."

            "I hate math," she complained.  "I'm not gonna do it and you can't make me."  _So don't even try._

            It was 5:30 on a Wednesday afternoon; Kristy was calling the meeting to order.  _Momma would never let no thirteen-year-old babysit me.  Why can't these people think of more interesting names for their club?_  She was about to find out what would be discussed at the meeting, but felt the book being yanked from her eager hands.

            "Homework," Sipowicz instructed.  "Now."


	3. Why Won't You Talk to Me?

                For those of you who automatically pressed the link to the third chapter, I would strongly advise going back and rereading the first two chapters as I have made some extreme changes.

                The title of this chapter is from a Pink Floyd song _Keep Talking._

**Chapter Three: Why Won't You Talk to Me?**

McDowell-Sipowicz Residence

Sunday, November 2, 2003

4:43 pm

            "Connie McDowell," Connie greeted the caller.  "Who's calling please?"  She covered the mouthpiece and motioned for Andy to pick up the phone.

            "Ha!" Theo said triumphantly.  "You have to go down the chute."

            Andy retrieved the phone from his girlfriend.  "This is Detective Sipowicz."

            Jasmyn groaned.  "You got this game rigged or something."

            "Dick Charleston," the person on the other end introduced himself.  "Jasmyn's teacher."

            "Yeah, I know," Andy replied, motioning the kids to be quiet.  "Is she in some kind of trouble or is this just supposed to be a friendly chat?"  _My teachers never called students' houses.  They just sent notes home._

            "Actually, I was wondering if you'd received any weekly progress reports from Jasmyn."

            " 'Weekly progress reports'?" the detective echoed.  "What weekly progress reports?"  Jasmyn took his words as her cue to hightail it out of the room.  "Don't move!" he hissed.  The nine-year-old shot a terrified glance in Theo's direction.  The boy returned one of his _Aww poor thing_ looks in hers.

            "Thursday afternoons, the students receive a weekly progress report to be signed by the parent or guardian," Mr. Charleston explained.

            _Last time I checked, the week ended on Fridays._  The teacher seemed to read Sipowicz's confusion.  "I used to give them out of Fridays, but I learned that most students misplace the sheet over the weekend."

            "No, I never got anything," Andy told him.  "How many progress reports haven't been turned in to you?"

            "She's been living with you for about two or three weeks now, right?" Charleston asked.

            "Give or take," Sipowicz responded.

            "I understand she's going through a rough transition in her life right now," Charleston said.  "Losing her mother … the foster home … living with a relative she barely knows …"

            "That's no excuse for not showing me them reports," Andy told the teacher.  _I was an abused child … my father was never around … people took advantage of me … I should get off easy for killing my neighbor._  He wasn't about to let Jasmyn be allowed to use her mother's death as an excuse for her behavior.  "Hold on a second."  He covered the mouthpiece.  "Where are them 'progress reports'?" he asked the quaking girl.  She shrugged.  "Jasmyn …"

            "I threw them out," she mumbled.

            "She got rid of them," he told the teacher.

            "If you'd like, I'll send an extra copy home with her on Monday.  I won't penalize …"

            "Better to fax them to my office," Andy suggested.  "And you can penalize her.  Someone does something wrong they deserve to suffer the consequences."  He gave the man the office fax number.  "Sorry for all the trouble," he said before hanging up the phone.  As soon as the conversation had ended, he turned to his granddaughter.  "You mind telling me why you been hiding progress reports from me?"

            "I dunno," she mumbled.

            " 'I dunno' isn't a good enough excuse," he said.

            "Maybe I don't feel like showin' you."

            "Well, you'd better 'feel like showin'' me," Andy replied.  "Or you'll be looking at some major punishments."

            She shrugged and looked down.  "I don't care."

            "Oh?  What's on them reports that you don't want me to see?"

            "You're gonna see them now anyways," Jasmyn said.  She turned to retreat into her and Theo's room.

            "I want to hear it from you.  You be honest and forthcoming with me, and I'll be more willing to cooperate with you.  That's how it works."

            "She ain't some perp," Theo broke in.  Jasmyn tried not to grin.

            "Don't you start defending her," Andy scolded.  

            "Maybe she had a good reason for not showing you," Theo continued.

            "Then let her tell me that," his father responded.  _Just great …I got a lawyer here._  "Jasmyn, if you been getting bad marks, tell me now.  You get in more trouble for lying then you do for bad behavior."

            "You ain't my momma," she spat out before slamming the bedroom door.

            "Maybe you should let me talk to her," Connie suggested.

            Andy nodded.  "Yeah, that's a good idea.  I can't seem to get through that thick skull of hers."

            "The two of you are too much alike," she said.

            "Bullheaded and stubborn.  But I was never as bad as her …" Connie snorted her disapproval.  "I was going to say 'when I was a kid'," he finished.

            "She's testing you," she explained.  "My mom died when I was eight.  When my dad remarried, I was the biggest bitch to my stepmother.  I still don't know how she put up with me.  Part of me wanted to make sure that Donna wasn't replacing my mom, and another part of me didn't want to attach myself to someone who could be taken away from me.  I didn't want to have to lose someone I cared about again."

            "I see where you're coming from."  _Andy J … Bobby … Sylvia … Danny …_He was glad Connie was there to be an objective observer.  "So you think you might have a better chance at getting her to talk?"

            "Like Theo said, she's not some perp," Connie said.  "I'll try talking to her."

            As he watched his girlfriend enter his son and granddaughter's room, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy.  Jasmyn had taken an immediate liking to Theo, Connie, and the baby, but with Andy, she was as stubborn and standoffish as they come.  _Yeah, she's a Sipowicz all right._

* * *

NYU Medical Center

Monday, November 3, 2003

12:23 pm

            John Clark, Jr. skimmed through the latest issue of _Newsweek _while he waited for Dr. Garrett to return with his blood test results.  He had taken a blood test last week – at Rita's insistence – and was told to stop by Dr. Garrett's office for the results.  "If it's bad news, just tell me straight out," he'd said.  The doctor assured him that he preferred to give all results in person.

            "Good afternoon, detective," Dr. Garrett said, walking into the exam room.  He was clutching John's med chart in his hand.  "How are you today?"

            "I'm doing okay," John answered.  _But I've been better._

            "Any more dizzy spells since the last time you were here?"

            He nodded.  "I almost fell down the stairs in the Precinct."  _Thank god Sipowicz wasn't there to see that._  John Irvin was, though; he literally had to threaten the PAA to keep his mouth shut.

            "I'm a little concerned with your test results," Dr. Garrett told him.  The detective swallowed and waited for the doctor to continue.  "The CBC showed a high amount of immature white blood cells and a low amount of red blood cells.  That could be indicative of anemia …"

            "You think I might be anemic?"

            "That's one possibility," the doctor said.  "Leukemia is another."

            "You saying I have leukemia?"

            "I didn't say you have leukemia," the doctor corrected.  "I said there's a possibility.  I'd have to do some more tests to rule it out.  Do you have any time today?"

            "No, I gotta get back to work."

            "When does your shift end?"

            "I'm on from eight to four."

            "My office is open until five-thirty," the doctor said.  "Would four-fifteen this Wednesday be good for you?"

            "Yeah, I'll just leave a few minutes early."

            He paid the deductible and dragged his feet to his car.  He sank into the driver's seat and gripped the steering wheel with trembling hands.  Dr. Garrett's wordskept running around his mind like a runaway freight train.  _Leukemia … more tests …leukemia … more tests …_  He rubbed his temple.  _Don't jump to conclusions, _he reminded himself.  _It could just be an iron deficiency or something._  The flashing green numbers on the clock radio reminded him that he was late.  He was meeting with Andy and Siena at the Lab at quarter to one; it was now five to, and he was at least ten more minutes away.  He knew Andy would demand to know why he was late.  He wanted to tell him.  He wanted to tell him about the fatigue, the dizziness, the blood tests, and the doctor's words ringing in his ears.  But he couldn't.  _No sense having people worry about me – I can do that on my own._

* * *

15th Precinct Forensics Lab

Monday, November 3, 2003

1:14 pm

            "See these abrasions?  That signifies sexual assault," Dr. Hill explained to Detective Sipowicz.  "And the ripped fingernails – she fought with her attacker."

            "I noticed the ripped nails," Sipowicz told her.  _You crime shrinks always gotta state the obvious, don't you?_  "But she was struck in the back of the head, not the front."

            "He got pissed off.  Raping her wasn't enough, so he bashed her head in a few times for good measure."  She pointed to track marks cris-crossing the arms and legs.  "Heavy user," she commented.  "Most likely heroin – she weighs less than ninety pounds."  

            They looked up when the door squeaked open.  "Nice to see you again," Andy called out sarcastically to his younger partner.  "You were supposed to meet us here at quarter to."

            "I had something to take care of," Clark told him.

            "What do you mean 'something to take care of'?  We've been waiting over half an hour for you."

            "I mean it's none of your business," he shot back.  "Hey, Siena," he greeted the forensic psychologist.

            "You got a watch?" she asked.  "12:45 means 12:45."

            "Lay off," he hissed.

            Andy's cell phone rang, granting John temporary reprieve.  "Sipowicz," he greeted the caller.

            "Ortiz and McDowell just picked up a missing person case," Rodriguez informed him.  "The victim matches your DOA's description."

            "These people are just now stepping forward?  This girl's been dead at least three months now."

            "Their daughter ran away from Poughkeepsie six months ago," Rodriguez explained.  "The detective on the case recognized your DOA's description and thought it might pertain to his case."

            "What's the runaway's name?"

            "Meredith Crandall, age seventeen."

            "We'll do a check."  He hung up the phone and repeated the new development to the others.


	4. Nausea and Busted Lips

Copyright and Author's Rambling

You know which characters belong to Steven Bochco and which belong to yours truly.  Don't abuse them.  

                Any derogatory terms are the expressed and bigoted thoughts of the characters who utter them and in no way represent the author.  Be forewarned of their existence in this fic.

**Previously on NYPD Blue:**

[Andy Sipowicz and Noelle Camden in the cafeteria of the New York City Department of Child Services.]

"Are you sure?" [Andy] asked.  The girl she was pointing toward was the same girl he had collided with before.  "There's got to be some kind of mistake," he explained.  _ A big mistake – that girl's black._

                "No mistake," the social worker clarified.  "Jasmyn is biracial."

                "I can see that," Andy shot back.  "She doesn't have any family on her mother's side?"  _I can't be taking care of no black girl.  God knows what type of trouble them people get into._

                "Ms. Wilder's family lives in Jamaica," she said.  "She was estranged from them.  It was her expressed wishes that Jasmyn be placed with her paternal family."

                "And if I don't take her?"

                "She'll most likely end up spending the next nine years in foster care," she replied.  "Children her age are impossible to find permanent homes for."

                "Alright, I'll take her," he answered.  Ms. Camden's face seemed to brighten.  "Do I need to fill out any paperwork or anything?"  _Andy, Jr., what the hell did you get yourself into?_

[John Clark, Jr. and Dr. Garrett at the NYU Medical Center.]

"I'm a little concerned with your test results," Dr. Garrett told him.  The detective swallowed and waited for the doctor to continue.  "The CBC showed a high amount of immature white blood cells and a low amount of red blood cells."

                "You think I might be anemic?"

                "That's one possibility," the doctor said.  "Leukemia is another."

                "You saying I have leukemia?"

**Chapter Four: Nausea and Busted Lips**

15th Precinct Detective Squad

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

11:07 am

            Detective John Clark rubbed his eyes and attempted to stay focused on the rap sheet in front of him.  _Chase Larson, born August 15, 1976.  Six collars, two arrests.  Served a five-year sentence for possession._  The rest of the words were blurring into one another.  He shoved their collar's history to the other end of his desk and rested his head in his hands    

"What do you got?" his partner inquired.  Clark shoved the rap sheet onto Sipowicz's desk.  "Well, this guy's familiar with the system," he grunted.

            Clark rubbed his eyes.  "Yeah, looks that way." He followed his partner into Interview Two.

            "Thanks, Henry," Sipowicz said, temporarily relieving the guard of his duties.  He nodded at Larson.  

            "Look man, I didn't do nothing," Larson protested.  "I swear!"

            "Where were you this morning?" Clark asked.

            "With my girlfriend."

            "Doing what?"

            Larson rolled his eyes.  "What do you think?"  He licked his lips.  "Best fuck I gotten all week."

            "That what your girlfriend is to you? A 'best fuck'?" Sipowicz asked.

            "No, damnit!  That's not what I meant."

            Clark blinked back the sea of nausea that threatened to overtake him and attempted to focus on the collar at hand.  "Do you know why you're here?"

            Larson shook his head.  "No fuckin' clue, man."  He paused.  "Wait a minute – the dude I bought coke from last night was an undercover cop, right?"

            "If he was, you'd have been brought in last night," Sipowicz explained.

            "I've done time, I'll admit that," Larson said.  "I got a drug problem."

            "Do you know a 'Meredith Crandall'?" Clark asked.

            Larson scrunched his face up trying to conjure up an image to go with the name Clark mentioned.  "That don't sound fam … wait, you mean Merry, don't you?"

            " 'Merry'?" Clark pressed.

            "There's this whore hangs out on my block goes by the name 'Merry'," Larson told the detectives.  "What that bitch been saying about me?"

            Sipowicz spilled the news.  "Merry was found dead across from your apartment building two weeks ago."  

            Larson shrugged.  "I got nothing to do with it."

            "He's real broken up," Sipowicz told Clark sarcastically.

            "Look, man, I hardly know the bitch.  You want me to cry or something?"

            The senior detective leaned forward and grabbed Larson by the scruff of his t-shirt.  "Quit with the attitude or you get belted," he hissed.

            "Did you have a beef with her recently?" Clark inquired.  "She piss you off?"

            Larson edged away from Sipowicz.  "No, man.  That ain't my thing."

            "You know if she's been having a problem with anybody?"

            "I don't know and I don't care," the man mumbled.  John had difficulty hearing him over the ringing in his ears, but his partner heard him loud and clear.

            Andy shoved him.  "You want to try that again?"

            Chase Larson recanted.  "There's this other whore – Wanda – they always fight over turf."

            Andy slammed a yellow pad and pencil down on the table.  "Name and where she can be reached."

            The room was spinning and Sipowicz' gruff threats were ringing in his ears.  "I gotta … I'll be back," he gasped as he knocked over a chair and hastily exited the room.  He ignored his partner's comments and other onlookers' curious stares and made his way to the men's room.  _And I thought this morning was bad._  Hugging the toilet bowl was not supposed to be on his agenda today – or any day.  He debated skipping his chemo treatment this afternoon.  _Probably should get around to reading those brochures Dr. Kiyoto gave me._

* * *

Franklin Delano Roosevelt Elementary School

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

12:37 pm

            Theo handed Vinnie del Rocco the X-Men comic.

            "It's pretty good, ain't it?" his friend said.  The second and third-graders were sitting near the base of the metal jungle gym.

            "I like the classic X-Men better," Theo decided.

            Vinnie shook his head.  "No man, the new version is better.  The old stuff sucks dick."

            "Jerk boys arriving … four o'clock," Theo warned.  Brian Clayton and Owen Davis were six-graders and mistakenly believed themselves to be the leaders of the playground.  Matthew Clayton sat two seats behind Vinnie in class; the only reason he got in good with the upperclassmen was because he was Brian's kid brother.  First through third-grade students ate lunch from noon until 12:30, followed by recess.  Fourth, fifth, and sixth-graders had it in reverse order.  Kindergarten kids had their own "baby" playground.  The ten-minute transition period brought all grades in contact.  This was the time of day Theo met with both excitement and apprehension.  He enjoyed the few minutes saying hello to Jasmyn before she went into the cafeteria, but he hated the sixth-grade bullies.  _Here we go again,_ he thought grimly.

            "Hey, fatso!" Owen shouted to Vinnie.  The others puffed out their cheeks and snickered.  The boy's face was turning crimson but he ignored the taunts.  _Can't you idiots think up something more original than that?_

            "What do you got there, punk?" Matthew asked in a mock-friendly tone.  He ripped the comic book from Vinnie's hands.  

            "Give that back!" Vinnie yelled at him.  Matthew ignored him and waved the book in the air.  He and the other boys tossed it back and forth and tittered maniacally while Vinnie scrambled to retrieve his stolen property.  

            "That's not yours," Theo said.

            "What are you gonna do about it?" Owen asked.  "Have your daddy arrest us?"  _No, of course not … he'd be taking away our fun._  He made sure Vinnie's eyes were focused on the X-Men comic before tearing the pages out.  The second-grader blinked back tears.  "Aw, look, guys.  We made the baby sad," he pouted.  

_You are the biggest bunch of pricks I have ever met.  One day, you're gonna get it – you're gonna get it real good.  _Vinnie was a favorite target for this group because he was overweight and oversensitive.  Fifth-grader Emily Strauss was another target; they liked to throw spitballs at her pigtails, imitate her speech impediment and call her a "retard."  Unfortunately, she thought they were doing these things because they were her "friends."  Theo was as surprised as Owen when his fist made contact with the older boy's abdomen.

"What the …!" Owen panted.

            Matthew grabbed Theo by the shoulders and pushed him to the ground.  Theo curled his foot around the other boy's leg and brought him crashing down.  He ignored the metallic taste of blood on his lower lip and tore at Matthew's hair before connected his fist with the older boy's nose.  _Theo, you've got to be nuts,_ he decided.  _A second-grader vs. a third-grader … who do you think's gonna win?  You better stop before you get yourself pummeled.  _Another part of him told him to keep fighting.  _Only a chicken would back out now.  _Shouts of "Fight!  Fight!" kept his adrenaline pumping.

            "Theo?" a familiar voice called out.  "What the hell!"  His niece broke through the gathering crowd and attempted to separate him and Matthew.  His brother spat and cursed at the girl.

            "What did you just call me?" Jasmyn Wilder clenched her fist and waved it in front of the offending boy's face.

            Brian Clayton drew himself up to full height and bore his eyes into hers.  "A half-breed," he repeated sharply.  "You're a half-breed and a nig..." His ranting was cut short by a left hook.  He rubbed his cheek for a second, caught off guard by the fact that anybody – let alone a girl – would dare double cross the toughest boy in school.  Jasmyn was two grades younger and she was at least half a foot shorter.

            "Go ahead," she taunted.  "Say it again, you dumb prick!"  He responded by shoving her against the fence.  She used the opportunity to kick him in the groin and duck under his arm.  _That's one tough kid,_ Theo thought proudly.  He'd congratulate her later … assuming they were still alive and in one piece, that is.

            "Break it up!" Mrs. Torrance shouted.  The fight ceased at the sound of the fourth-grade teacher and this week's recess monitor's voice.  "All of you, report to the principal's office immediately!"

            "Why don't you talk to these sons-of-bitches here?" Jasmyn seethed.  "They got it in their thick heads they own this damn school."  _C'mon, Jazzy, don't get us into more trouble._  

            "You'll have to excuse my niece," Theo informed the recess monitor.  "She was dropped on her head as a baby."

            The others snickered, but she was not amused.  "Sipowicz, is it?"  He nodded.  "I'm sure you don't want me to report back to your father that you sassed a teacher, am I right?"

            He shook his head and followed the others to Principal Wallace's office.  Dr. Wallace was of medium stocky build, but seemed like a towering giant to the young children in his jurisdiction.  He was balding, the hair on his head transferred to the bushy gray eyebrows and equally thick handlebar mustache.  Theo had passed by him in the hall but had never given him a second thought.  The only kids who talked to the principal were goody-two-shoes and troublemakers.   

            "You three, sit here," Mrs. Torrance commanded.  Theo, Jasmyn, and a cowering Vinnie took their places upon the bench adjacent to the trophy case.  "The rest of you boys, over there."  Brian, Owen, and Matthew plopped down in the chairs on the opposite side of the room.  She took her place in the center of the room, keeping a close watch on the offenders.  

            The room outside the principal's office seemed enormous and overwhelming to the perception of a second-grader, but Jasmyn didn't appear to be fazed in the slightest.

            "You were defending a friend," Jasmyn told Theo.  "And if it's your first fight, they can't go to hard on you."

            "We got them good, ha?" Theo said triumphantly.

            "Yeah, you sure were tough," she complimented him.  "Got your lip busted up pretty bad, though."

            He grinned.  "It'll heal."  He pointed to the purplish bruise forming on her cheek.  "They did a nasty job on you, too."

            A woman poked her head out the door.  "Theo Sipowicz?"  He stood up and gave a quick glance in Jasmyn's direction before shuffling into the foreboding room to learn his fate.


	5. Confrontations

**Copyright and Author's Rambling**

I made changes according to the February 25th episode.  Except for dates, the only scene that went through any notable changes was in the first chapter (an altercation between John and his dad was changed into John having a nightmare).

                You already know I don't own NYPD Blue – so don't ask.

**Chapter Five: Confrontations**

15th Precinct Locker Room

Monday, November 24, 2003

9:53 am

Detective Andy Sipowicz slammed the door of the locker room.  "What the hell is going on with you, John?" he asked once his partner had entered the room.

            "Nothing."

            Andy sighed.  "So do you mind explaining why your behavior of late?  You been gallivanting into work late, leaving early, disappearing for hours at a time …" _And you been getting so thin (Rita told me that, but I noticed them suits of yours look big on you)._  At first he had assumed his partner's erratic behavior was the result of grieving for his father.  The repeated fainting spells made him question that assumption.  But it was John Irvin's  frantic disclosure of witnessing the younger detective in the restroom with a syringe that kicked him into action.

            "I've got things I been taking care of," John quickly assured him.  "Nothing for you to be concerned with."

            "If I got a partner putting his job at risk, then yeah, I do got a right to be concerned."

            John snorted.  "Putting my job at risk?"

            "Somebody saw you injecting a syringe into your arm."

            "Ever hear the phrase 'assume makes an ass out of u and me?'  It's for my iron deficiency.  If they'd talked to me instead of running to good old Andy, they might have found that out."

            "What about you going off god knows where all the time?"

            "I'll leave a few minutes early so I get to work on time.  Don't worry about it, Andy."  

            "Maybe you don't realize this, but the thing about partners is that they communicate with each other.  You get my drift?"

"I've got a lot of stuff on my mind," Clark admitted.  "Don't worry.  I won't let it interfere with my work, if that's where you're headed."  He began to absentmindedly pound on his locker with his fist.

            "Partners help each other out," Sipowicz reminded the younger man.  

            "Well, maybe I don't want your help!" Clark retorted.  "Ever think of that?"  The pounding of the locker became more frantic.  "I'm a big boy now, Detective.  I can handle my own problems, thank you very much."

            _If I wasn't worried about you, I'd be roughing you up for that mouth, kid._  "I've made that mistake one time too many.  Cost me a partner."

            This didn't seem to faze him.  "I can take care of myself."

            "I've already buried two partners," Andy said.  "I don't want to have to bury a third."

 "I'm fine, Andy.  Just leave me alone."  _I know something's wrong, kid.  You ain't too good at hiding it._  

"Leave you alone?  Look, kid, if you're in some kind of jam …"

Conflicting emotions flickered across his face, but he tried to hide it with a tough and angry tone of voice.  "Do you always have to butt in to people's business?"  He kicked open the door and tried to exit, but Andy grabbed his wrist.  "Let me go!" he hissed.

Andy watched sadly while his partner slammed the door in his face.  _Something's not right with you kid.  I'm gonna find out what it is._

* * *

McDowell-Sipowicz Residence

Monday, November 24, 2003

7:39 pm

            "A detention?" Sippy roared.  "How the hell do you get two detentions in one month?"

            Jasmyn dug her heel in the rug and made circular motions.  "I dunno," she mumbled.

            "You damn well better know!" he replied.  "What do I have to do to get you to stay out of trouble?  Do I need to start taking away privileges?"

            "I ripped up a test," she said quietly.  "It was a stupid math test," she added before he could talk.

            "Well, that's just great," he said sarcastically.  "Let's commit an act of vandalism now, shall we?  Mr. Charleston is willing to help you with your work, and you go and throw and down the sewer.  Brilliant idea, Jasmyn."

            She glared at him and filled her mind with a myriad of curses against the potbellied detective who had the gall to think they were related.  She wasn't sure what to call him.  _Andy _seemed too familiar; _Detective Sipowicz_, too formal; and _Grandpa_ was the one word that refused to cross her lips in reference to this man.  She and Theo had discovered his high school yearbook recently; the pages were filled with messages to a _Sippy._  For lack of a better term, she started using _Sippy_, too.  If he minded, he didn't let on.  _Is he done ranting yet?_ She wondered.

            Unfortunately, he was not.  "You could go to jail for defacing property," he explained.  "So many of the things you get into trouble for could land you in the system.  Is that what you want?"  

            "What's it to you?" she retorted.

            "Don't you dare use that mouth with me!" he shouted.  She could count at least three veins in his reddened forehead.

            Connie placed a hand on his arm.  "Andy, calm down."  Her voice was gentle yet had a firm _I mean business _tone to it.  She turned to Jasmyn.  "If you're having trouble, honey, you should talk to someone.  Ripping up an exam is only going to make things worse."

            "Forget it, Connie," Sippy told her.  "We've already tried reasoning with her.  It's not working.  How are your grades?" he asked the nine-year-old.  "You're not failing out of school, are you?"

            _You'd like that, wouldn't you?_  "I got an A in Reading and Social Studies," she told them.

            "What about math?" Connie asked.

            "C's and D's," she mumbled.  _Shit!  You already know, so why the hell do you got to ask?_

            Andy turned to Connie.  "You see?  It's impossible to educate them people – they're too damn stubborn."

            _Go to hell you fucking prick!_ She hissed under her breath.  

            "What did you just say?" he asked harshly.  _Oops!  Guess I didn't say it soft enough.  _He repeated the question.

            "N-nothing," she stammered.

            "You're in enough trouble as it is," he reminded her.  "I'd advise against opening that big mouth of yours."

"You ain't my Momma," she said.  "You can't tell me what to do."

            "You better stop with the sass right now.  You want to get into more trouble than you already are?"  _I don't care._

            She stormed off to the bedroom.  "I hate you!" she cried.  "Wish Momma was here so I don't have to know you."  She slammed the door shut before hearing his reply and curled up on her bed.  The door squeaked open and a hand shook her back.  "Go away," she mumbled, the tears dripping down her cheek.

            "You okay, Jazzy?"

            "Yeah," she said to the seven-year-old.  She didn't change her position on the bed.  "I hate it here!" she sobbed.  "I hate it!  I hate it!  I hate it!"

            Theo didn't say anything.  He just squeezed her hand and let her rant.

* * *

McDowell-Sipowicz Residence

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

1:51 am__

            __

            Theo Sipowicz squeezed his eyes to ward off the intruding light.  "What time is it?" he mumbled.

            "Ten to two," Jasmyn answered.  "Go back to sleep."

            He opened his eyes and sat up.  Across the room, his niece was haphazardly throwing clothes into a suitcase.  "Are you going on a trip?" he asked.

            "No, not a trip.  I'm running away."

            "Why?"  Now he was fully awake.  "You don't like it here?"  _Please don't hate me or Daddy or Connie.  I'll be sad if you go away._

            "Never said I don't like it here," she said.  "But Sippy hates me."  _Yeah, he was pretty mad earlier, wasn't he?_

            "Dad doesn't hate you," Theo argued.  _Maybe he does, but I sure don't hate you.  I think you're the greatest._

            Jasmyn nodded, sure of her decision.  "You heard him just as well as I did, Theo Sipowicz!  I'm ruining his life."

            "Well, you're not ruining my life," he told her.  "I like you a lot."

            The nine-year-old grinned.  "Really?  Man, you're the only one here who gives a damn about me."  She walked over to his bed and mussed his hair.  "You ain't half bad, kid."

            Theo tossed off the covers and walked to the closet.  He pushed open the door and attempted to reach for the top shelf.  Seeing that he was too short to reach the shelf, he decided to drag a chair over to the closet.  

            "What are you doing?" Jasmyn asked.  She helped him get the Pokemon wheelie-bag down before it collapsed on top of him.  "No, Theo.  You can't …"

            "Yes I can!" he responded.

            "I'm doing your dad a favor," she explained.  "If  you come with me, he'll get really upset."

He shook his head.  "I don't want you to be by yourself," he said.  He grabbed a few articles of clothing and placed them in the suitcase.  "I'm coming with you."  _What's that word Daddy uses all the time?  "Stubborn?"  _

* * *

Streets of NYC

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

2:28 am

             Jasmyn grabbed Theo's hand and led him across the street.  They'd only been walking for about half an hour, and already his feet were killing him.  "Not many taxis this time of night, I guess," Jasmyn commented.

            "Where are we gonna go?" Theo asked.  _We can visit John or Aunt Katie.  I'd like to go to Disney World again._

            "I'm thinkin' maybe New Orleans," she suggested.  "Momma said she was gonna take me there to visit this friend of hers."  Her voice got softer.  "That was before she got in that bad accident."

            "Can we go to Disney World?"  

            She nodded and ushered him away from a foul-smelling woman sleeping on the sidewalk.  "We can go anywhere we want, babe."

Theo flashed her a quick smile.  _Anywhere I want?  I want to go home, but I know that's the last place you'd go._  They walked past a bar.  People were milling about while a man was attempting to close down for the night.  At the end of the block, there was an ice cream shop.  Theo wanted some ice cream, but he knew that _Closed_ meant that nobody was there.  They turned and entered a street that – except for a group of men talking in hushed voices – was very deserted at this time of night.  They dodged one or two bodies sprawled in the dirt, ducked over a clothesline, and jumped over a deflated basketball.  Suddenly, Theo felt himself yanked into the alley.  He turned to his heroine.  "W-what?" he asked fearfully.

"We gotta get out of here!" she gasped.  _What happened to Disney World and New Orleans?_

"Jazzy, what's wrong?"  She pressed her index finger to her lips and dragged him back to the main street.  "Now can I talk?" he asked.

"Uh, Theo?  Do you know where the nearest Greyhound Station is?"

He shook his head.  "Never been on one."  They continued walking aimlessly around the darkened city.  Some of the scenery they were passing seemed familiar to Theo, but he couldn't quite figure out why.  

"Too bad that joint ain't open now," Jasmyn mused as they passed by _Mario's Pizzeria._  "I could go for a big slice of everything pizza right now."

"Theo?" a voice called out.  He grabbed Jasmyn's hand and they turned around to see who had recognized him.  The blonde-haired man jogged across the street to where the children were standing.  "Where's your father?" he asked.  "Where's Connie?"

"Hey, John," Theo greeted his favorite baby-sitter.  _No wonder this area looks so familiar – you used to live here, you dodo.  _

John Irvin took in the wheelie-bags.  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked.  "Do you know how dangerous it is to be wandering around like this in the middle of the night?"

"I had to leave," Jasmyn explained.  "Sippy hates me."  _For the last time – he does not hate you._

John shook his head.  "He doesn't hate you, Jasmyn.  He's just difficult sometimes.  You ever hear the expression 'his bark is worse than his bite'?"  She nodded.  "That's the way it is with your grandfather.  He cares about people, but he has a funny way of showing it."  _How come Dad's nice to me but he gets really mad at everybody else?_  He grabbed each child by the hand.  "Come one, you too.  I'll give you something to eat, but first I've got to make a phone call."  _Theo, this is what is called _knee-deep in shit.  


	6. A Secret is Revealed

**Chapter Six: A Secret is Revealed**

Streets of NYC

Thursday, December 4, 2003

12:21 pm

            Detective John Clark finished photographing the DOA and stood back while the Medical Examiner drew up the pale yellow sheet.  The victim had blood matted all over her hair, her skull was fractured, and there were strangulation marks on her neck.  _This look familiar to you?_ He mouthed to his partner.  "Any witnesses?" he asked the uniform.    

            "Step back, people!" She instructed the crowd before turning to the detectives.  "My partner and I were on patrol.  We found the body."

            "What's your name?" Detective Andy Sipowicz asked.

            "Tamara Quentin.  You see those two girls over there?" She nodded toward two young women leaning against the concrete steps of the next building.  "They've been hanging around – all lip and no brains.  You should …"

            "Thanks, we got it," Andy interrupted.  They approached the two girls.  "You mind telling us what you're doing here?"

            "I live upstairs," one of the girls answered. 

            "What happened?" her companion smacked her bubblegum.  "Did someone die?"

            "I heard it was Lois," the first girl said.  "I can't believe she's, like, gone."

            "Who's Lois?" John asked.__

            The girl he had dubbed "Ditz #1" answered.  "Some junkie that lives on the second floor."  Suddenly her jaw dropped open.  "Oh, my god!  Hilary, look!"

            Clark and Sipowicz whirled around, trying to see what the girls were looking at.  "What's wrong?" Andy wanted to know.

            "You look just like him," Ditz #1 said.  "Doesn't he look like …"

            "Holy shit!" Ditz #2 shrieked.  "He does."

            Andy wrinkled his forehead.  "Who looks like who?"

            The two girls jumped up and down excitedly.  "Has anyone ever told you you look like Zack Morris?" Ditz #2 asked the younger detective.

            "Who?"  _Is that some member of the Backstreet Boys?_

            Ditz #1 rolled her eyes.  "Only the hottest character on _Saved By The Bell_," she informed the clueless detective.

            He vaguely remembered watching the television show on TBS after school, but he couldn't understand why anyone would want to compare him to the endearing troublemaker the two girls were speaking of.  "No, actually, people tell me I look like Caligula."

            Now it was the girls' turn to be puzzled.  "Who's that?" they asked.

            "You take Bubblehead #1 and I'll take Bubblehead #2," Sipowicz said under his breath.

            Clark and Ditz #2 (renamed Bubblehead #1 by his partner) remained near the steps while Sipowicz and her companion walked a few feet away.  "What's your name?"  _Unfortunately, I can't call you "Ditz" or "Bubblehead" to your face._

            "Hilary," she answered.

            "You're saying the woman who was murdered this morning was named Lois?"

            She flipped her hair back.  "That's what's, like, going around."  His pressed a hand to his ear to stop the ringing.

            "How'd she get along with the neighbors?  She have any problems with anyone?"

            "Oh, good god, no!" Hilary gasped.  "Everybody loved Lois.  She was so sweet.  When she wasn't high, I mean."

            "Did you see anybody suspicious hanging around recently?"  Grimy cement waves lolled around a pavement ocean.  He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to steady himself against the wavering sidewalk.

            "Some jerk who keeps flirting with Zoe," she answered.

            He opened his eyes.  "Is that …" he almost said _Ditz # 1_ but caught himself.  "Your friend?"

            Hilary nodded.  "I don't know his name and I don't care.  The man gets such a freakin' boner every time Zoe walks by."

            The waves were increasing in frequency.  _Not here, _he swore.  _Damn it!  Not here._  Sweat was pouring down his forehead.  He swallowed the nausea and focused his attention on the information Hilary was giving him.  "Can you give me a description?"

            "He's short," she said, bringing her hand in front of her chest.  "And his breath reeks."

            "What color is he?"

            "White – but with a real dark tan.  And he always wears this ugly green Army bandana," she added.  "You wanna find him, all you gotta do is look for someone with bad …" 

            By now, the sidewalk and the people were hazy blurs and Hilary's voice was senseless cacophony.  He gripped the wide cement banister with a shaky hand.  

            "… Gonna call the cops if he doesn't lay off," she was saying.  "Are you okay, Detective?  You look positively green."

            "I don't feel too good," he muttered.  The sidewalk raised up to cradle his body and tall buildings and blue skies swam fast circles around his head.  He felt a hand shaking his shoulder.  _Detective …what happened? … he just, like, said he didn't feel well and then he, like, went down … someone call the paramedics! … voice gruff yet familiar: what's going on over here? … the guy who looks like Zack Morris just collapsed!_  Everything spun around in one more violent circle and then his world faded to black.

* * *

Bellevue Hospital

Thursday, December 4, 2003

1:11 pm

"Hey, McAllister, you got anything for me?" the man inquired at the admin desk.

The man Andy assumed was McAllister lifted two charts out of the bin.  "Would you like a sixty-seven-year-old woman with hemorrhoids or a twenty-nine-year-old man - leukemia with L.O.C.?"  _Oh, so you docs get to pick and choose, huh?  I'd love to be able to pick and choose what scumbag I want to go after, but I don't have that choice, now do I?_

The doctor grabbed one of the charts.  "I'll take the leukemia.  What room?"

"Exam two."

A tap on the shoulder brought Andy's attention away from the conversation at the admin desk.  "How is he?"

"I don't know," he told the Lieutenant.  "Still waiting to be seen."

Tony took a cheap plastic seat next to the detective.  "What happened?"

"He was interrogating a witness and he just collapsed.  She said he looked sickly a few minutes beforehand."  He shook his head.  "If that kid's gonna keep passing out like that …"

"You saying this wasn't the first time?"

"He fainted a month or two ago," Andy explained.  "But he came to right away.  Wouldn't let us take him to the hospital.  Said it was a dizzy spell.  Couldn't argue with us this time - he was still unconscious when the bus got there.  You get a hold of Ortiz?"  _Maybe she knows something I don't._

"She and McDowell were checking out a lead on a case.  I told Irvin to give them a heads up."

"What the hell's taking so damn long?" he grumbled.  He flagged down a nurse.  "Hey, you!  We've been waiting here for – I don't know – at least half an hour now.  You mind telling …"

"We're backed up right now," she said.  "A doctor will be here to examine you as soon as they can."

"My partner was brought here by ambulance and we haven't heard zip since we got here."

"Oh.  If you give me the name, I'll check up on it."

"Now you see what listening gets you?"

Tony grabbed his arm.  "Andy, take a seat," he ordered.  "His name's John Clark, Jr.," he told the nurse.  "He's a detective on the force."

The nurse checked the board.  "He's in exam two," she told the detectives.  "Dr. Rossetti should be out in a few minutes to talk to you."

_Exam two?  Why does that sound familiar?_  A surge of memory nearly sent him propelling to the ceiling.  _Twenty-nine-year-old man – leukemia with L.O.C. … Exam two._  "Ah, no!" he groaned.

"You okay, Andy?" Rodriguez asked.  

He ignored him and headed toward the exam rooms.  _What the hell were you thinking?  You let me think you were on drugs.  Now I find out you're sick and you never let on?_  "Where's exam two?" he asked.  Someone pointed to the left.  "Thanks."  _I'm your partner for Christ sakes!  How could you keep something like this from me?_  He pressed his hand against the doorknob.  _I could deck you for this, Clark._  Part of him wanted to lace into the stubborn young man for making him find out the news via a third party.  Another part of him wanted to envelope his partner in a hug and let him know he was there for him.  He was seething mad and he wasn't sure what was worse – the fact that yet another person he cared about was ill or the fact that John didn't trust him enough to confide in him.  He opened the door to the exam room and took in the sight of his young partner on the bed with IV's and tubes running in and out of his arms and the oxygen mask on his nose.  He opened his mouth to speak, but the only words he could get out were: "How long …"

"I'm sorry, Andy.  I couldn't … I couldn't … I didn't want you to worry about me."

            _Too late for that.  _"I was already worried," he informed him.  He pulled up a plastic orange seat next to the bed.  "You had me thinking you were on drugs, you know that?"  John turned and faced the wall.  "How long?" he repeated.

            John sighed.  "About two months now."  __

            "Have you told the boss?  You could take a medical leave …"

            John shook his head.  "You're the first person in the squad I'd tell something like this to.  You know that."

            "Does Rita know?"

            "She hasn't cornered me yet," he sniffed.

            "Have you told anyone?" he inquired.  "Who knows about your condition?"

            "Me, my oncologist, and now you."

            "You mean to tell me you been keeping this to yourself this whole time?"  No answer.  "Ah, John."

            "I gotta … I got to take care of myself, don't need people worrying about me."

            "You can't handle this alone, John."

            "I … at first … I thought …" he sputtered.  "I thought I was tired all the time cause of all the nightmares after Pop …" He took a deep breath, unable to finish the sentence.  "Why'd you make me tell you, Andy?  I was doing just fine on …" His voice cracked and he collapsed into heaving sobs against the older man's chest.

            Part of Andy wanted this partnership to last so he could disprove the _Andy Sipowicz is bad luck _myth circulating the precinct.  One partner involved in dirty action and two dead wasn't good.  He'd lost too many people to be able to lose another without a complete loss of sanity.  Another part of him cared about the kid.  Twenty-nine-years-old could scarcely be considered a "kid," but at his fifty-four-years, anyone below the age of thirty qualified.  _Andy, Jr. would have been two years older than him if he was still alive.  _If there hadn't been a rift between Sipowicz and Clark seniors, would the juniors have gotten along?  He liked to think so.  John was like a second son to him.  A partner, a son, and a friend … all rolled into one.  And he'd be damned if he had to watch him die.


	7. Life Goes On

Author's Rambling

                  Sorry it's taken so long to update.  If you must know, I had end-of-year papers and exams, then a summer job, plus other stuff.  Oh, and don't forget that cursed writer's block.  But my muse has returned.  Even though it's been months since I've updated, I'm following the Blue formula – the action takes place the next day.

Previously on NYPD Blue:

[John and Andy in John's hospital room.]

                  "Have you told anyone?" he inquired.  "Who knows about your condition?"

                  "Me, my oncologist, and now you."

                  "You mean to tell me you been keeping this to yourself this whole time?"  No answer.  "Ah, John."

                  "I gotta … I got to take care of myself, don't need people worrying about me."

                  "You can't handle this alone, John."

**Chapter Seven: Life Goes On**

Bellevue Hospital

Friday, December 5, 2003

7:45 am

Detective John Clark, Jr. blinked and willed the unfamiliar surroundings to come into focus.  This wasn't his bed.  This wasn't his apartment.  And these sure as hell weren't the sweatpants he usually wore to sleep.

             "He's still sleeping," he heard a scratchy female voice say.  _Need another cigarette, lady?_

             "I figured," a familiar voice responded.  "My shift starts in fifteen minutes.  I just wanted to check up on him."  _Who are you people?  What are you doing in my apartment?_  He tried to sit up, but something had his arm tethered to the bed.  _No, Clark, you're not in your apartment.  You've been kidnapped._  He shook his head.  _No, that ain't right._  He rubbed the remaining sleep out of his eyes.

             "Well, well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living."  He observed the stranger.  Light green scrubs were stretched over approximately a 43DD chest.  Cropped red hair was peppered with gray at the temples and wrinkle lines dotted her eyes and mouth.  

             "Ain't dead," he mumbled.  He hugged the pillow.  The woman approached the bed and bent down to adjust something.  When she stood back up, he looked at the tag on her scrubs.  _Chistine McMurphy, R.N._ was written in bold above the Bellevue Hospital logo.  _I'm in a hospital?_

             "Would you like some breakfast?" Nurse McMurphy asked.

             John shook his head.  He rolled over and saw the portly man sitting on the cheap plastic orange chair.  The man looked to be about early to mid-fifties.  He was wearing a long beige jacket with an NYPD shield on the right side.  "Hey."  He gave the man a half-wave and attempted to place a name with the familiar face and voice.

             "You get a good night's sleep?" the detective inquired.

             "Yeah.  Sure."  His eyes followed Nurse McMurphy until the curtain next to him obscured her from view.  He heard the detective say something, but couldn't quite catch it.  He turned around and faced him.  "Hmm?"  _Give me a minute.  I'll figure out who you are.  _

             "You okay, kid?"  The man looked genuinely worried.

             The events of the previous day slowly came into focus.  _You collapsed … hospital … Andy knows everything … you cried in front of Andy._  If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was people witnessing his vulnerable side.  And Andy Sipowicz had seen that part of him on more than one occasion.  "Don't worry, I'm fine," he assured his partner.  "Don't you have to be at work?"  

             "I can afford to be five minutes late," Andy said.  "You sure you're okay?"

             John sat up, leaning against the pillows for support.  "Yes.  I'm not much of a morning person," he quickly explained.

             "That's expected.  You're in a strange place.  I felt the same way when I was in the hospital."  

             "When you got shot?"

             "And after my prostate surgery," Andy added.  "I had cancer there about five years back."__

             "Sorry to hear that."

             "Doctor say when you can leave?" 

             "He wants to keep me over the weekend.  Get me re-hydrated or something.  Any leads on the case?"

             "D.O.A. fitting the same M.O. as Meredith Crandall and Lois Ewing was found over in Brooklyn," the senior detective said.  "We're collaborating with the Brooklyn S.V.U."

             "Don't you have a friend there or something?"

             "Diane Russell.  She transferred out of the 15th a few months before you came."

             "She must've known I was coming and ran."  He grinned.

             Andy grinned back.  "No.  Sorry to disappoint you, kid."

             "Must be nice working with her again."

             "Don't worry, you'll meet her when …" Andy's pager interrupted the conversation.  He fished it out of his pocket.  "911," he informed his partner.  "I gotta answer this."  The younger man nodded wordlessly and watched him dial the familiar numbers of the 15th Precinct Detective Squad.  "Sipowicz," he told the person on the other end.  A few seconds of silence, then an "Uh huh."  Andy grabbed a pen and notepad off the small table and jotted down street coordinates over the Bellevue Hospital logo.  "Be right there," he said before hanging up the phone.  He turned to his partner.  "I have to go."

             "Help me get these things out of me and I'll join you," the junior detective said, trying to yank the tubes and needles out of his arm.  _I want to blow this joint._

             Andy grabbed his partner's arms and pushed him against the bed.  "Don't even think about it," he warned.  "Get some rest.  I'll keep you posted."

             John sighed, resigned.  "Yeah, yeah."

             "Yeah yourself.  I'll come by a little later," Andy assured him.  "Try not to give the doctors and nurses any trouble."  

             "Damn!"  John complained.  "You're taking away all my fun."  Silence.  Then: "Take care of yourself, man."

             Andy patted him on the shoulder.  "Yeah, you too, kid."

* * *

David Fowler III Apartment

Friday, December 5, 2003

8:08 am

             "Whaddawe got?" Detective Sipowicz asked the uniform cop.

             "Fifty-nine-year-old David Fowler III.  Found on his kitchen floor.  Bullet to the back of the neck."  He pulled back the yellow sheet to allow the detective a glimpse of New York's latest D.O.A.

             Andy stepped around the bloodstains on the linoleum.  "Who found him?"

             "His son Lewis."  The officer motioned toward a thirty-something-year-old man sitting cross-legged on the living room floor biting his fingernails.  He lowered his voice.  "Ain't too bright, if ya know what I mean."

             The detective ignored him and walked over to the victim's son.  "Lewis Fowler?"  He showed him his badge.  "Detective Sipowicz from the 15th Precinct."

             "Dad's sick."  He didn't bother looking up.

             Andy knelt down next to the man.  "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Fowler.  Can you tell me what happened?"

             "Dad's sick," Lewis repeated.  He looked at the detective.  "He's gotta go to the hospital so the doctors can make him better."  _Ain't too bright?  That's the understatement of the year._

             "Lewis, do you know anyone that might want to hurt your father?  Anybody he wasn't getting along with?"

             Lewis clenched and unclenched his fist.  "I don't know.  Was Dad bad?  Is that why the police are here?"

             Andy shook his head.  "No, your father wasn't bad.  The person who killed him was.  We just want to find out who that was."

             "I saw this show where this guy dies and they bring him back to life.  You're gonna do that, right?"

             He didn't answer.  "If you think of anything, here's our card."

             "I'll give it to Mayna," Lewis said.

             "Who's Mayna?"

             "Mayna's my friend.  I don't read that good.  She helps me."

             "Does Mayna have a number where we can reach her?"

             "She's outside."

             "Outside?"

             Lewis nodded.

             Andy thanked him and headed toward the canvassing detectives.  "Anything?"

             Detective Baldwin Jones was the first to reply.  "Nine millimeter slug.  On its way to Ballistics.  How's John?"

             _Half asleep when I got there._  "I got him flirting with the hospital staff."  The kid had him worried.  He couldn't be quite sure, but it seemed as if his young partner hadn't recognized him at first.  _He wakes up in unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar people_, he reminded himself.  _You'd freak out, too, if you were him._  He noticed that Clark was conveniently trying to forget his breakdown the day before.  _There's way too much going on for this kid._  "Should be able to go home in a few days."

             "Uh, Andy?"

             Andy didn't bother turning to face the bumbling Irish detective.  "What is it, Medavoy?"

"I … I umm was th-thinking maybe … asking …. Maybe we could pitch in to help Clark with his medical bills," Medavoy stammered.  "I don't think he …"

             Andy patted the other senior detective on the shoulder.  "Yeah, that would be good."

             Greg looked up and shook his head.  "I don't get why he didn't say nothing.  How could he keep this to himself?"

             _That's what I want to know.  That's what everyone wants to know._  

* * *

Central Park Ice-Skating Rink

Saturday, December 13, 2003

1:39 pm

             Theo grabbed his stepmother's hand and pulled her toward the rink.  "Come on, Connie."

             "One minute, Theo."  Detective Connie McDowell finished buttoning her one-year-old niece's pale blue jacket and handed her to her husband.  Andy took the baby and bounced her on his knee.

             "You're not coming, Daddy?"

             His father shook his head.  "Michelle and I are gonna watch from here."

             The redheaded boy tried not to look too disappointed.  "I can't handle all these girls by myself."

             "Enjoy it.  When you're old enough to appreciate women, they might not want to …"

             "Girls suck," Theo informed his father.  His nine-year-old niece glared at him.  "Not you, Jazzy," he quickly amended.  He whistled.  "Hoo boy, you should see some of the girls in my class."  _If they ain't goody-two-shoes they got big mouths and if they ain't got big mouths, they got cooties._  Jasmyn made a gesture.  Theo rolled his eyes in response.

             "What's that supposed to mean?" Detective Diane Russell inquired.

             Theo grinned.  "She's saying 'I love you'."

             "Bull.  What's it mean?" Andy pressed.  

             The two children exchanged a glance.  Jasmyn nodded, dejected, and prodded Theo to speak.  "It means 'Fuck you and your mother, too'."

             "Where'd you learn something like that?" Connie asked before his father could open his mouth.

             "New York City Public Education System," Jasmyn announced.  Theo bit his lip to keep from giggling.  "We're scholars in the making," she added under her breath.

             Theo enjoyed spending time Diane.  She was Daddy and Connie's friend and one of the Sipowicz men's "extended family."  According to the adults, Diane helped keep baby Michelle from being taken away.  He didn't want to know what would have happened if they had lost her (not that the adults would tell him, anyways).  "Can we go skating now?" he begged.

             Diane crossed her arms over her chest.  "I thought you said you didn't like 'girls'," she reminded him.

             "Aw, c'mon, Diane.  You're not really girls."

             "Oh, no?" Connie asked.

             Theo wobbled over to the rink.  "Grownups don't count."

             "Wait for us," his stepmother instructed.  The seven-year-old held onto the side and waited for the rest of the group.  He grabbed Connie's hand and pulled her into the ice-skating rink.  Diane and Jasmyn skated in the opposite direction.

             "This has been a very big year for you, hasn't it?" Connie observed once the others were out of earshot.  He shrugged and kept his attention on not slipping on the ice.  She continued.  "New apartment … a new stepmother … a new sister … two new sisters," she added.  Technically, Jasmyn was his niece, but Connie was right – their relationship was more brother-sister than uncle-niece.

             "I like having Jasmyn around," he assured his stepmom.  "And you and Michelle, too."

             "How are you handling all these changes?"

             "I dunno.  It's not quiet no more."  _Except when Daddy and Jazzy yell at each other._  "How come Daddy and Jazzy hate each other?" He couldn't tell who was more shocked – Connie at hearing the question or himself for blurting it out.

             "They don't 'hate' each other," she said.  "They both are so much alike, and when you have two people who act the same, they fight."

             "Oh."  He shook his hands to make sure they weren't going to freeze off his arms.  "So you guys aren't sending Jasmyn back to the foster home."  He felt bad spilling her secret – she knew it was just a matter of time – but he had to know for himself.

             Connie squeezed his hand.  "No, honey, no one's sending her away.  She's not going anywhere."

             He weaved past another skater.  "Someone tell Jazzy that."  


End file.
